Dodge
by WorldsGreatestDefective
Summary: He wasn't sure how it happened. One minute he was scraping by in Crime Alley, and the next he was living the good life in Wayne Manor. The way Jason Todd saw it, someone was going to end up regretting this whole thing. Takes place soon after Bruce takes Jason in and up through his six-month training as Robin. T for Jay's foul mouth.
1. Chapter 1

It has to be a world record: found in an alley, adopted two weeks later, and, judging by the way the vein in Bruce's head is popping out, dead in three.

I had a good run, I guess.

Ever since he spotted me jacking the tires off his car in Crime Alley, Bruce Wayne has worked to get me into a whole normal home life… thing. What the hell he means by normal, I have no damn clue. The man dresses up like a bat all hours of the night and gets waited on by a penguin crossed with Mother Goose.

Okay, so, Alfred is fine. Most of the time he's totally cool, but since it's partly his fault that Bruce's head is about to explode all over me, I reserve the right to call him Mother Penguin.

Maybe trying on Batman's utility belt while Bruce was at some dinner was a bad idea. And maybe putting on the cowl and cape over my t-shirt and jeans were even dumber. And _maybe_ using Dick's old Robin Cycle and high-tailing it out of the cave for a joyride was kinda stupid. Or really stupid. At least I came back right away.

Well, first I crashed the bike and then I walked back into the cave. I should have known the damn place had cameras, and of course the damn butler had eyes on every room in the house at all times, the alien robot that he is.

All Alfie had to do was shake a finger at me himself and keep it quiet, then none of this would be happening. Instead, Bruce is practically purple as he tries to keep from shouting so loud he breaks glass. At least, that's what he looks like he's doing. That, or he's two steps from shitting himself and he's about to burst from the effort. Neither one would surprise me.

"You want to explain what happened in your _own_ words?" he manages.

"Anything I say can and will be used against me." Maybe not the smartest reply, but it seems fitting.

Bruce slams his hand down on the desk and I swear my stomach hits the floor.

"I'm not going to ask you again." Though it's not exactly a threat, it's not exactly comforting, either.

When I first got here, Bruce laid out several rules from me and mentioned or implied consequences. Most of them are pretty typical, at least from what I've read in recent books and seen on the TV. I'm supposed to mind my mouth, no more smoking, no more stealing, and overall do as I'm told. So long as I do that, I can see more than the four walls of my designated bedroom. He's never outright said anything about doing more than that, but the purple of his face tells me he's two steps from throwing me through the wall or at least giving my ass an unholy beating, and I have zero desire to deal with either.

"It just seemed like a good—"

"Idea at the time?" he finishes for me. If possible, he gets even more purple. Hell, he looks like that girl from Willy Wonka who got turned into a blueberry. "You're going to have to try harder than that."

I wish he hadn't said that. I'm not a dumb kid; I know I'm not. I do dumb things, but mostly its because I just decided not to think at the time or someone pushed my buttons. Telling me what to do is still one of those buttons. Telling me I have to try harder after I'm already trying plenty? Yeah, not happening.

Instead of _trying_ anything, I curse in more ways than I can count. I'm pretty sure something like "ass pirate" and "prick nozzle" came out along with the rest of the mess, but I can't be totally positive. All I know is that Bruce has finally had enough.

The vein doesn't exactly burst, but something else in him seems to. He lunges for me, and for a second I cringe thinking he is going to slap me right across the face. I have to force myself to keep eye contact with him, though the rest of me begins to brace for impact like I am the only one left on my side in a game of dodgeball against a 'roided-up psychopath.

Instead of hitting me, he grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. Suddenly, we're face-to-face, and I can feel his angry breath against my cheeks. About a thousand thoughts seem to be running through his head and trying to make their way out of his mouth.

Then Alfie steps in. Weird how just an hour earlier he was totally against me, and now he's out to save me from torture.

"Master Bruce, perhaps we should all retire for the night and calm down. No good can come of short tempers."

"He needs to be dealt with," Bruce shoots back.

"We all need a good night's sleep," Alfred counters. "Any more of this tonight and I am certain someone will say or do something they may regret."

"Short of tearing off one of his limbs, I doubt anything I do now I'll regret after that stunt he pulled. What the hell was he thinking?!" he snaps at Alfred before turning back to me. "What the hell were you thinking?!"

"What the hell were _you_ thinking?!" Now it's my turn to snap, and I'd bet good money my face is now almost as purple as his is. "You're the damn idiot that took in a street-trash mess and you think I'm just going to sit around your huge fucking house and nod like a puppet when you tell me to stay put?! I heard on the radio there was a police stand-off and you were busy schmoozing Wayne Enterprises investors. Someone needed to help! And I figured you're only half of what you are because of your stupid gadgets, anyway!"

I'm an idiot. Yelling at an irate Batman is probably the dumbest idea in the world. I'm an idiot with the worst death wish ever. Worse yet, though, is I don't believe a word that I'm saying but I can't stop myself from saying it. I'm mad and I can't explain why, I'm confused but I don't know what the hell I'm confused about, and I just wish Bruce would finish yelling at me or knock me to next Tuesday so I can go to bed and forget I don't belong here.

Only he doesn't. He stands there and stares at me for a while, the purple of his face fading to red, then pink, then finally back to its normal pale. As the blood drains away, he keeps his eyes on me. I shift uncomfortably under the his stare. I almost preferred the angry vein to this creepy quiet.

"You need to go upstairs, Jason," he orders me. Though he's worlds quieter, it sounds worse. Way worse. So much worse that I forget whatever I'm angry about and do as I'm told.

Halfway up the stairs, I realize this is it. I've pushed him past the point of tolerance and he's going to kick me out.

Now I wish I had just let him throw me through a wall.

As soon as I'm in my room, I close the door and collapse against it. Everything that happened in the last couple of hours hits me at once and I kind of want to puke. For three whole weeks I had a new family. A new dad, a new grandfather-penguin-goose person, and a house bigger than the old apartment complex I used to live in. I went from living in a condemned building on my own with maybe one meal a day to having a bed the size of a boat and three square meals. Whatever square means.

Of course I fucked it all up. Like I said: world record.

No point in dwelling.

I grab the suitcase Bruce bought me to help pack up my things from my old place and start piling my stuff into it. I try to keep most of what they bought me out of it in case they want to return it and get their money back, but some things I can't get rid of. Most of it is clothes for the winter, but there's also this really cool pocketknife Bruce got me when I first came to the manor. I know it probably cost more than the rent my parents used to pay, but it seems like it's worth more than money.

It's the first real gift anyone got me since my mom died last year. To be honest, it's probably the first gift anyone got me since she started using real bad four years ago.

I stare at the magnifying glass and clock parts of it when there's a knock at my door. Not even thinking about the mess my room is now in, I call out, "Yeah?"

I expect Alfred, still prim as he usually is, to come in and tell me that it would be prudent for me to brush my teeth, take a leak, and get my ass in bed. In so many words. Except it's Bruce. For a second I think he's changed his mind in not killing me tonight, but his face still seems relaxed.

Actually, it seems exhausted. I know the feeling.

At first he looks at me, but then his eyes land on the bag behind me and the pile of crap I have around it. Suddenly, he looks anxious.

How the hell did I just make friggin' _Batman_ anxious? I didn't even say anything!

"Going somewhere?" he asks, though he doesn't sound particularly pissed.

"I thought I'd beat you to the punch," I shrug.

He stares at me for a while, then squares his jaw. I know what's coming. Sure, I'm surprised it's happening so damn soon, but then again maybe I'm not. I'm almost more surprised it took three weeks for him to realize what a screw-up I am.

He gestures to the bed and together we sit down. It's like in those movies when someone is about to be broken up with. I've just never seen a movie where it's happened in an "I don't want to be your parent anymore" sort of way. First time for everything?

Bruce even starts off the whole thing as cliche as possible. He takes a deep breath and, with that fake sad look people get before kicking someone to the curb, he says, "We need to talk."

World. Fucking. Record.

* * *

**Ah, me and my late-night rambling writing. I figured the six-month period between Jason being taken in by Bruce and becoming Robin had some interesting adjustments. Why not write them down? I'm not quite sure yet how I see their father-son relationship going, but I guess that will come with time. For now, I hope you all liked my random writing. **

**-Defective**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! On to chapter 2!**

* * *

This is it. I wonder how much the road burn will hurt from the Wayne Manor driveway when I get my ass kicked to the curb. Can't be worse than if the Bentley is parked in the front. I'd hate to land face-first into that monster. Actually, it _could_ be worse—it could be the Batmobile.

"We need to talk." The four worst words in the history of ever, and they could only mean one thing: _So much for being adopted_.

"I know," I say before Bruce can finish. "Look, you really don't have to say anything. I get it. You made a mistake. I was the wrong kid to pick up. I know. I'll be out of your hair by morning, and you don't even have to count the silver. I promise. I'm not stealing anything."

"Silver? Jay, what are you talking about?"

"I mean I know what you're going to say and you don't have to worry about feeling like a bastard. Just give me another half hour, tops, and I'll be out of your hair. I don't know what kind of legal crap you might need to pull to unadopt me, but I'll do whatever you need and not make you look bad. Cross my heart."

I could have kept going, but the heaviest pair of hands suddenly rest on my shoulders and stop me from talking period. I'm pretty sure Bruce's meat hooks are at least twenty pounds each, so when they're on your shoulders you kind of have to shut up and look the man in the eye.

Not that doing that was easy, either.

"What are you talking about?" he asks. Weird how someone so big could sound so damn calm and comforting. Especially when just a few minutes ago he was ready to tear me a new one.

"I mean I can leave you, Alfred, and Dick alone to live your normal 'Kumbaya' life without me. Look, it was fun while it lasted, but we both know I'm not—"

"Stop."

His voice was somewhere between an assuring whisper and a low growl. My head snaps up at the sound, his eyes holding mine in a stern stare.

"Before you finish any of that, I want you to know that I would never unadopt you. Not unless you were unhappy here and wanted to go somewhere else, of course. Alfred, Dick, and I would hate it, but we want you to be happy. Do you understand that?"

"Not really," I shrug.

Bruce sighs, wiping his hand over his face. "I get the feeling I could talk to you about that until I'm blue in the face, but something tells me that part is just going to take time. We're still trying to get a sense of one another. That's what I came up here to talk to you about. _Not_ to get rid of you, but to get a few things straight."

"Like what?" I ask.

"Well, I guess we got some of the first part out of the way. Jason, I need you to understand that I may lose my temper sometimes, but that never means I don't care about you. I lost it tonight, and I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. You deserved to be punished, but downstairs was…"

"If you say that was abuse or something, I might actually clock you upside the head, boss," I interrupt before he gets a chance to finish it, himself. "I took a motorcycle out without permission, left without asking, crashed the damn thing, and tried to sneak back inside. I think you're allowed to yell and almost blow a gasket. Trust me, I've been through a lot—a _lot—_worse than whatever that was."

I sigh, looking down at my hands before adding, "Which is why I'm no good for you. I'm not the kind of kid you need around here, B."

He reaches his hand out, but seems to think better of it before it lands on my back, instead settling it at his side. I can't tell if I'm disappointed or relieved by it. A little of both, I guess.

"Bruce, on top of all that, I said some really shit things to you downstairs. Like, bad. You had a right to be mad at me. You still do. And I have no right to be here because I know I said some of it just to upset you, and I know it won't be the last time. I felt bad, so I wanted _you_ to feel bad. What kind of a person acts like that?"

"Plenty do, son," he assures me. The last word catches whatever words I had left in my throat, keeping my arguments down with the swirling bile in my gut. "Jay, like I said, we're still getting to know each other. And, like _you_ said, you've been through a lot. That doesn't make you unworthy of anything, but it does mean we need to try to be a little patient with each other. It also means having a firm grasp on boundaries around here."

"Like, no means no?" I ask.

He arches an eyebrow at me. It's weird, but as embarrassed and anxious as I get when he gives me that look, part of me is happy. It's dumb and I couldn't explain it if I tried, but for a whole second it's like every other kid who just said something dumb to their dad.

"In a way, I guess, but I don't want you making light of this situation or even that phrase. Clear?"

"Crystal, boss."

"That's another thing: downstairs, in training, I'll allow you to call me that. I know you don't mean any disrespect by it. In fact, I can tell you mean well by it. But, up here, I'm not your boss, I'm not your chief. I'm certainly not champ any time. I'll accept B from time to time, but make sure to keep it respectful. You don't need to call me anything other than Bruce if you don't want to—"

"I'm sure when I'm pissed I can think of a lot of names…"

Again that look, and this time he glares down at me so hard I wonder how more villains don't piss themselves when he's wearing the cowl. Downstairs was worse, but up here with me calm, I can see how so many criminals just whine for their mommies when he comes around. Still, another part of me (which is starting to get damn annoying) tells me that I don't have anything to worry about. Not really. His tone, as firm as it is, eases my nerves a little and I relax in spite of how much I try not to.

"Sorry, Bruce. Just trying to lighten the mood or… something."

"Put the conversation on your terms?" he asks me. "Do what you can to control the situation?"

This time, it's my turn to send him a look, though he only smiles back. "Could you not psychoanalyze me before you tell me how dead I am for downstairs?"

I'm surprised when Bruce actually laughs at that, and even more so when his hand does rest on my back, patting the tense muscles between my shoulder blades. I relax even more at his touch, even lean into his hand to feel the comfort and warmth that radiates from it. God, I don't understand people who take this kind of thing for granted: this whole kind parent thing. Then again, I guess if you've had something your whole life, you really don't know any better.

Bruce pulls his hand back and lays it over his lap. Once the warmth is gone, I find myself missing it, and hate like hell that I do. Weak. I've gotten damn soft living the good life for all of three weeks. God, in a month I might as well be wearing one of those English schoolboy outfits and whining about tea cakes.

"You want to tell me why you keep making those faces?" Bruce asks, breaking me out of my daze.

"Huh?" _Eloquent, Todd._

"Nothing," he says, his smile falling a little though his eyes don't change. "All right, no more psychoanalyzing for the moment. And, you're not dead. In a certain level of trouble, but not dead. Some of it I can forgive off the bat—

"Heh, _bat_."

"—since I'm sure my less-than-composed performance didn't help matters."

"Well," I start, "it wasn't awesome being yelled at that close, but it's not like you're dangerous as Bruce Wayne. Still, sorry for pissing you off that much. I kind of have that effect on people. Not that I thought you were going to do anything like he did…"

I trail off at the memory of my father and what he would have done if he were on the receiving end of my idiot mouth and dumbass idea. It takes two seconds for me to realize I probably would be sporting a few good bruises, especially a shiner across the face or a split lip for the sassing. He hated that.

"Jason, I would never, _ever_—"

"I know," I stop him, shaking my head. "Yet another reason you're better than him or me or anything like that. I'm a born screwup and you're going to see it sooner or later."

"I haven't seen anything like that since the day I met you. Don't argue, either," he adds, his voice low when I take in a breath to do just that. "I don't care about the tires, I don't care about the attitude you had or the language you used, and I don't care about the smoking now that you've quit. It's in the past. More than that, you're eleven years old and you're allowed to make mistakes. It's part of growing up. I made plenty when I was your age, so did Dick, and you will make more than just tonight. We just need to get you to a place to where you understand that it's not going to mean an eviction for messing up. And, I need to get used to having a preteen, again."

"So… how does this work, then?" I ask suddenly, the last of my tension leaving. My posture slumps next to him, and he replaces his hand on my back.

"How about we play it by ear a little? I'd go with what worked for Dick, but as Alfred and Leslie have both pointed out to me, you're very different. That's not a bad thing, but it just means that what worked for him and what still works for him won't work for you. For now, I want you to put your stuff back in your drawers and closet—neatly—and for you to go to bed. You're going to be up at 6:00 sharp for training. After a few laps to clear your head, you're going to write me a four page paper by hand on motorcycle safety and manners. That last part you can thank Alfred for."

"The traitor…"

Bruce stands, shaking his head at me and giving me one last pat on the back. "It's better than my idea. I was going to have you research motorcycle fatalities."

"I can't tell if that's cool or horrible…"

Another laugh erupts from Bruce. "If you had any doubts about whether or not you belong here, I think that response alone should give you your answer. No, manners it is. Could do you some good, chum."

I have to stifle a smile at how stupidly happy I feel at the nickname, especially when he ruffles my hair. He stands there in front of me, and in the dim light of my bedroom lamp he really could pass as my dad. Not like he's a lookalike of Willis Todd, but I mean I could pass as his kid. Hell, if he weren't Bruce Wayne with his whole life plastered all over the tabloids, I'm sure we could convince people I was.

But he is Bruce Wayne, and we can't.

"Come on, clean up and get to bed. You have an early morning ahead of you."

"And I'm going to make you regret every minute of it so you never wake me up early again," I groan. Even with my threat in the air, I get up to do as I'm told, careful to fold my clothes just right so Alfred doesn't pitch a fit. Then again, considering all the "help" he gave Bruce tonight, I can't help but leave a shirt sleeve untucked just a little.

To think, revenge on my old man used to mean spitting in his beer.

Without a word, Bruce steps toward my piles of stuff and helps me clean the mess. He leaves the trinkets out for me to put away, allowing me a few spots of privacy, and just focused on the obvious locations for my clothes. In no time, my whole room is clean and it's like I was never two steps from running away.

"You didn't have to help me," I say. Then, remembering myself, I add, "Thanks, though."

"Any time," he says.

And I know he means it.


	3. Chapter 3

A very short chapter for me. Actually, almost criminally short, but I'm attempting to get back into the swing of things. It's been a crazy few months! Completely and absolutely bonkers, in mostly good ways but still... Anyway, here's the next chapter! I'm hoping to have more in this story and my other stories soon as I'm taking this whole week off from my normal 9-5(ish)!

Without further ado, onward!

* * *

I'm just going to say this once: I'm not a morning person. Not unless you count staying up all night and happening to see morning. I don't do _early_. So when Alfred opened my door at 6:00 to get me out of bed, he shouldn't have been all that surprised when I had a few not-so-nice words to say about it. Probably should have gotten up when it was him coming to get me, though…

Because now I have to deal with Bruce.

He opens the door without so much as a knock, and before I can even think about turning on my best Alfred impression to call him rude, he pulls me out of bed and over his shoulder.

"What the hell?!" I yell. Not shriek. Definitely not shriek.

"Do you know what time it is?" he growls.

"Uh…"

"6:10. You were told 6:00 sharp. It wasn't a request, it wasn't a favor, it wasn't an option. 6:00." I hang, my waist bent at his shoulder, until his arms wrap around my legs and I can feel him lowering me head-first to the ground.

Okay, _now_ I'm awake.

"Hey! Bruce, stop! I'm up! You're going to drop me!"

"Maybe a drop on the head will knock some sense into you. When I tell you to do something, it is in your best interest and often just flat-out for your well-being to do as you're told when you're told to do it. I don't talk for the sake of hearing my own voice, and I mean for you to listen to me. Do you understand?"

The sun is barely up and my head is swimming. He's lucky I can understand where the hell I am right now, but I manage to yell, "Yes! Okay, I get it! Can you put me down now?"

He lowers me closer to the ground in a sharp release of my legs. It doesn't last longer than a second, but damn it if I don't nearly piss myself. "ON MY FEET! PUT ME DOWN ON MY FEET!"

For one hellish second, I swear I'm going to drop and split my head open on the shiny hardwood floors. Bet Alfred would shit a canary at my brains all over the place. Just before I drop entirely, Bruce catches my ankles and flips me over to place my socked feed over the brain-free floor. I don't even get to catch my breath before he's in front of my face, almost nose-to-nose with me.

"When I say something, I mean it."

"Yes, sir," I mutter.

"You just added another lap and another page to your paper," he says. I open my mouth to protest, but his scowl keeps me quiet. Guess Bruce Wayne isn't much of a morning person, either.

I hang my head, torn between wanting to curse at him, kick my bed, and just crawl back under my covers. Then I feel a heavy hand land on my shoulder. When I look up, Bruce's scowl is gone and he almost looks nice again.

"Come on, chum. I think Alfred has some bacon he's been saving for you. Something tells me you're going to need a good breakfast to get through the day."

"Your fault. The bacon's probably cold now, too," I mumble.

"Alfred? Let something get cold? Sacrilege. Maybe I did drop you on your head…"

He puts a hand on my head, faking an inspection for damage, and I bat it away. "Jerk. You enjoy torturing me. I'll be glad when Dick gets back from Titan Tower just to get you off my back a bit."

Bruce just laughs and leads me out of the warmth of my bedroom, down to the smells of bacon and and eggs wafting in from the kitchen. As soon as my nose catches a whiff, my stomach almost leaps out to attack the food piling on the plates. After living in this place for the past few weeks, it's hard to imagine how I survived off of a tin can of sardines and some stale crackers for a week once. Not one of my best times.

"Ah, the young master is awake," Alfred says as we head to the kitchen table.

"Thanks to a near heart attack from this guy," I gesture to Bruce, who just shakes his head and goes to his coffee and newspaper.

"It's nothing you didn't deserve. And you learned a valuable lesson," says Bruce.

"Yeah," I reply, "Keep my door locked."

Alfred gives the most proper of snorts as we take a seat at the breakfast table. So weird to have more than one table. Heck, it's weird to have one real table to begin with. Before I get a chance to think about the differences in the apartment Bruce took me from to the Wayne kitchen alone, Alfred sets large, heaping plates in front of me and my rescuer.

"There. Two eggs and three bacon strips each with a side of toast, I think, will keep you both up and ready to face the day," he says. I look down to see four perfectly crispy strips on my plate then over to Bruce's three, and look up, surprised at Alfred's inability to count. He just sends me a wink and goes back to his duties.

Traitor or not, I love Alfred. I'm deciding that now. Give a kid from the streets extra food, and you've basically got, "_He'll fight for me or die trying_" written on your forehead forever.

Bruce pretends not to notice the difference, instead focusing on the newspaper in his hands. "Looks like Gordon is having a rough week."

"The Commissioner?" I ask, earning a nod. "What's going on with him?"

"Not so much what's happening with him as the recent wave that's been hitting the city. That incident last night you heard about that had you speeding to the rescue—"

"Before I sped my face straight into the asphalt? What about it?" I ask.

"It looks to be something more than just common thugs with a hare-brained scheme—"

"I still don't get that saying."

Bruce levels me with a look at the interruption then continues reading in silence. For now, I'm kept mostly out of the loop of the big crime sprees. Every now and then, he lets me help with research and, if I'm really lucky, Alfred lets me help with com work or Dick calls me up for a quick background check or something, but mostly I'm in the dark. Part of training, I guess. They don't want me too in-the-know about the bullshit around this city.

As if I don't know enough about it already.

Still, Bruce has this thing about making sure I have a "normal" childhood. It's been the biggest source of our fighting since we first met. I haven't been normal since I was born, and I doubt he'd know the meaning of the word if it hit him in the ass. I told him as much once, and I swear he was really close to showing me how normal a Gotham parent he could be. The hard-up folks around here don't mess around when it comes to mouthy brats like me. At least I'm realistic about what I am, though.

After a few minutes of stretched silence, I give up on the big man giving me any more information and pull out the entertainment section of the newspaper. A few movie and book reviews, something about a new play, the re-opening of the museum we met at for the second time, and comic strips. I glance over them, halfway entertained by the more sarcastic ones and somewhat annoyed by the slapstick or pretentious ones.

At the fourth time of me mentally yelling the F-bomb at another idiot comic writer for misunderstanding the human condition (Yeah, I can be smart sometimes… screw you.) Bruce clears his throat. I look up to see his stern face, but an unmistakable twinkle invades his deep blue eyes.

"What have I told you about those comics?"

"Only read the ones worth reading?"

"So why do you have this miserable, death-to-all look on your face?" he asks.

I shrug, flipping the page. "Because I expected more of Foxtrot today. Low hanging fruit is not their style."

"I'll get you a Calvin and Hobbes collection. I think you'd enjoy that."

I have no idea what he means, but a surge of happiness spreads through me. A gift. A stupid gift, and it's based on something I might actually like. I take a second to remember myself, to remember that it could just be some stupid present to appease me and keep me quiet, until finally I just remember my manners.

"Thanks. I could take a look, I guess."

Bruce nods, watching me for a little longer than he would if he fully believed me. Smug bastard knows everything. I turn my eyes down and eat my last strip of bacon, enjoying that I had one more than he did. Suck on that, Mr. Smugface. Still, all too soon it's finished and he's standing up.

"Ready for training?"

"Is that a trick question? Is this really training, or is this some punishment/torture thing you learned in some of your time in Amsterdam? I feel like I'm going to need a safety word."

He grins then strolls right out of the kitchen. I can't tell if he found what I said humorous, or if he's planning to torture me. I guess I have no choice but to find out.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Reviews/favorites/follows definitely help me keep on track and let me know if this story (or other stories) are being enjoyed, so thank you so far for everything!

-Defective


	4. Chapter 4

To be fair, no one ever said that training would be all fun all the time. Especially if half of it is because I pissed the old man off. Still, I have to say I never expected it to be on the hell side of torture.

For the last half hour, I've been stretched, pushed, slammed, and suspended upside down by a rope, all in the name of training. It's during the last one that has me wondering what exactly I'm training for—a crime fighting partner or a circus freak. When Dick gets back, he'll have to clear that up for me. He would know.

"You need to get out of your binds!" Bruce calls from below.

"You locked me in!"

"You should know how to get out of at least half a dozen different types of locks, including this one. Use your head, Jason."

"Kind of hard like this!"

He glares at me so hard I have the sudden urge to piss my pants, which would be damn awkward in this position. Left without that option, I raise my head as much as I can to help focus on my task. Okay, if I could just get my right hand free, there is a collapsable pick kept in the leather of the index finger. The problem is getting my hand free when it's halfway around me and I can barely do more than scratch my ass.

I knew I needed a damn safety word.

"Stop that," Bruce snarls from below.

"Stop what?"

"You're swearing in your head again. Stop it and focus."

I want to spit at him, but instead practice the whole "harness your anger" thing and go back to the obstacle keeping my hands pinned. As stupid as I know I look, I wiggle to try and add some slack to the ropes. The rough material burns my skin through the less enforced parts of my suit, but I know better than to complain. I try a few more times, pulling my extremities as far in as I can to help. Finally, I feel a little give by my left hand. It's not enough to pull it through, but I can at least move it closer to my right hand to reach the gloved index finger.

As I fight with peeling back the leather, I can feel Bruce's eyes watching me, waiting for the moment when I succeed or fail. This isn't a timed mission, so the only way I could fail is if I give up.

And there is no way in hell I'm giving up.

It takes another minute for me to pull the pick free, and I carefully pass it off to my right. A swell of victory almost burns my chest. Then I realize that may be acid reflux from being upside down so long and—even more of a problem—there's not a damn thing I can do with a pick if I can't reach the lock.

With my left hand, I focus on pulling the rope as far away from my right as possible. My shoulder aches and every muscle screams that I should give up and beg. The stubborn idiot voice that got me into this mess won't let me, and finally I manage to get my right hand free enough to work it back to my front.

It takes me a few more minutes, or maybe a few hours, to free my right hand enough to get to the lock. With all the blood rushing to my head, I've lost all sense of time. All sense of anything, really, except for what's working to get me out. Once my hand is free, I don't even give into the temptation to pause for a victory breath. I just push forward, knowing the man is timing me. He never said so, but this is Bruce Wayne. He times everything.

The final clicking of the lock is the best thing I've heard in my life, and I drop down with a flip, just barely managing to land on my feet. When I stand, I muster as much of a straight face as I can, but I'm dying to give him a smug smile or kick him in the shin.

"Eight minutes and forty-three seconds," he states.

"Is that good or bad?"

"Depends on how fast the other guy wants to kill you."

Somewhere in that I feel is a warning to try harder, to be better, to work faster. Maybe there is also the pride of me finishing at all, but I know any of that sentimental crap would be made up. Even with finishing the stupid task and refusing to give up, somehow I failed.

"Fair enough," I reply, feeling my stinging fists clench. "What now?"

"Laps."

Crap, I forgot about those. I can't keep a whine from leaving my throat, but Bruce just sends me a hard look back.

"Are you going to sneak out of the cave with a stolen—"

"Borrowed."

"Stolen motorcycle again?" he continues, as if I hadn't said a word.

"I won't, I promise. Can I please just rest a minute?"

For a split second, something like pity comes over his face, then he shakes his head. "Laps. I'll tell you when to stop."

"Bruce!"

That bat glare is back. I try to give him one of my own, but I probably look more like one of those depressing kids on those commercials, and start to run. Or jog.

Honestly, I'm probably just grandma-style speed walking. Every inch of me aches or wobbles and it takes any energy I have left to keep from falling on my face. The screeching of bats adds to the miserable atmosphere, like the smell of dank water and metal. I focus on my breathing, on the sounds of squeaking bats and rushing water. Doesn't stop me from thinking about the pain I'm in or how much I just want to lie down, but it takes the edge off for a little while.

By my fifth lap around the cave's second level, the only thing in my head is how much I want this to end. I resorted to playing terrible cartoons and thinking of which body parts of Bruce's I'd like to kick for this, but they didn't last long when my chest started pinching. Finally, just before I collapse, Bruce blows some sort of whistle.

"That's enough for now," he calls out.

I lie down on the floor, not caring how pathetic I look. The cold concrete feels good against my burning skin. I stretch out on my back and stare at the ceiling, catching my breath and drifting into some half-thought, half-daydream. Did he ever make Dick do this? Was he as hard on him in the beginning as he is on me?

I somehow doubt it. Dick was eight when he came to live here. I'm eleven and "should know better" when it comes to most things. Dick also probably did everything he was told without question or backtalk. That's...not exactly how I operate.

A shadow passes over me, and I turn my head a little to see Bruce standing beside me. "You alright?"

"I've been better."

"Do you understand why I'm putting you through this?"

"Because CPS would get involved if you did what you really wanted to do, so this is a work-around."

Bruce shakes his head, though I can see a grin pulling at the side of his mouth. "You were willing to go into an unknown situation with minimal training and you had no idea what you were going to be faced with. I want you to be aware of the fact that your stamina isn't ready to face what is out there yet, and you have a lot to learn about how to handle a criminal situation, especially those that some of the madmen we deal with come up with. I'm not trying to hurt you Jason. Though, I guess part of it may also be a punishment."

I want to growl at him, but I feel like it'd be like that scene in _Lion King_ where the little lion gives a ridiculous meow only to get schooled by his dad. Something about the idea makes me laugh. Or maybe it's the fact that I even know about the movie at all compared to a few weeks ago when the extent of my pop culture references were from the shady video store my dad liked to go to and what I heard my neighbors yelling about.

"Come on, kiddo," he says, reaching down to help me to my feet. "I know you think I'm being hard on you, but I need you to understand that every order has a reason, and most of it has to do with your safety. I'm not trying to torture you."

"You sure about that?"

Bruce laughs, patting me on my cold, sweat-soaked back. If he's grossed out, he doesn't show it. "Making you miserable when you act up is just a perk. Let's get you cleaned up, get a snack in you from Alfred, and work on that paper."

"We can't just call it a draw?"

He shakes his head, leading me away from the cool cave and back into the glowing warmth of Wayne Manor. "Sorry, chum, but when I say something I mean it. Another fact you need to keep in mind when you're eventually ready to go out into the field with me."

A few smart ass replies come to mind but I quickly push them away. He's not really wrong in what he said earlier about making sure I know what I'm doing and that my body can even handle the stress of a fight to begin with. More than that, he's getting me more food and I'll be writing a paper in the safety of his library, which is basically heaven on earth.

A pang twists in my stomach, creating a knot the size of my fist. Bruce has been tough sometimes, even damn annoying every now and then, but I've never been taken care of so well in my life. The past three weeks have been as full of his nagging and tough training sessions as they have been of pot roast, more books than I could ask for, and somewhere comfortable to sleep that's not crawling with junkies or rats.

"You alright?" he asks.

I sigh and look up at him, again surprised at how much I look like him. How much both Dick and I could pass as his kids. If only.

Shaking off the sentimental garbage, I manage, "I'm sorry again about last night. I know I screwed up. I didn't mean to worry you or Alfred like that, and I really didn't mean to hurt the bike. I wanted to help out and be a hero, too, but I should know I'm not ready yet."

"I wasn't mad about you hurting the bike," he says, and I arch an eyebrow up at him. "Okay, I was a little mad about that, but I was mostly upset about you nearly getting yourself killed. What we do is dangerous without taking added risks, Jason. I need you to understand how to take care of yourself and how to think about a situation more than I need you to go in there with guns blazing."

"You don't use guns."

He pats my back, turning me up the stairs to my room. "It's an expression, Jay. I will never get mad at you for wanting to be heroic. You have proven time and time again that you're brave and willing to make sacrifices to help others. It is my job to make sure those sacrifices aren't necessary, and you come out alright in the end, as well."

"Yes, sir," I reply. My focus turns down to the carpet along the second floor hallway and into my bedroom, but after a moment I feel his move from my back to wrap around my shoulders.

"You're not a bad kid, Jason. I want you to remember that and realize that. I also need you to realize that everything we do here isn't to hold you back from your full potential, but to help you find it and keep you safe. I know you're more grown up than you ever should be, but you're still a child. I want you to keep that in mind. It's not just my job to train you to be a hero, but to make sure you have as protected of a childhood as you can have. The second trumps the first every time."

I'm glad when we hit my room so I don't have to think so much about what he just said. There's a strange, squirmy feeling in my stomach and I feel both nauseated and happy. I love and hate how much he cares. It's nice to feel like someone genuinely does for once, but it's also hard to believe it isn't some act.

"Take a shower and meet me downstairs in the library. I'll have Alfred make a tray and bring it to you in there. You're going to spend the afternoon grounded to that room."

I look up at him, his mouth straight but his eyes circled with little laugh lines. He knows damn well I would stay in there all day if I could, paper or no paper. I can't help but smile a little, nodding at his "order",

"Yes, sir. I guess I have to live with that."

* * *

Showers are kind of awesome. I know most kids complain about having to take them, but when you've spent weeks without warm water (or any running water), you know how itchy and uncomfortable you can get without it. Not to mention, people start to look at you funny when you haven't bathed in a while and you smell like rotten parmesan cheese.

And the Wayne Manor showers are the best. All marble and stainless steel, with these ornate glass doors. There are soaps and oils of all kinds, which is a bit surprising considering zero women live here, and there's even a setting that makes it like a waterfall. If I were younger, I'd totally pretend it was a real one, and I was on Themiscyra surrounded by all the awesome, beautiful Amazon women that will kick you in the face and smell like heaven while doing it.

But I'm not a kid anymore and I don't pretend.

I shut off the water and wrap myself in one of the puffy towels laid out for me, large enough to reach from my shoulders to the middle of my calves. I bet this is where Bruce got the idea of a cape from-the safe, warm feeling of a towel wrapped around your shoulders after feeling way too exposed.

Like the rest of my stupid thoughts from the past day, I shove that one into the corner of my mind and continue getting dressed. There's a dull ache in my muscles and my chest still hurts from breathing so hard earlier, but the hot water made me feel worlds better and I look forward to spending the rest of the day curled in an oversized chair, even if part of it is for a punishment.

The manor library is just off of Bruce's study, but completely dwarfs it in size. Sitting at the back corner of the house, it has windows that line every wall, reaches the full three stories of Wayne Manor, and is topped off by a skylight. Since moving here, most of my home schooling has taken place at its tables or curled into one of its more comfortable chairs, reading first editions of Dickens or researching about astronomy or whatever else I feel like reading about.

Bruce has never been shocked at how I have more brains than most people would believe, but I think even he was surprised at how much I took to this room. Dick understood, at least. He had been home schooled since he lived at the circus, but their limited budget meant he got second-hand books with half the answers already scribbled in.

I walk in and see a silver tray already laid out beside one of the overstuffed leather chairs, piled with finger sandwiches and cookies. A lap desk is set on the chair along with a pencil and some sheets of paper. I take in the sight then look up to Bruce.

"How are you feeling?"

I shrug. "Human again, I think."

He chuckles and any less stress falls away as I climb into the chair and get comfortable. Once I'm settled, he gets closer, his face falling again into his serious, tight-jawed expression.

"I want three full pages, front and back thanks to your late start, about what was wrong about what you did, what you could have done differently, and why it matters. You have until dinner."

"What if I don't finish by then?"

"Good luck getting dessert out of Alfred tonight, then."

I feel that familiar tug-of-war inside me at his response. Half of me wants to be angry at how he's speaking to me like I'm some dumb kid. The other half realizes I can kind of be a dumb kid, and sitting here working on an assignment with the threat of less sugar hanging over my head is a shit ton better than what would have happened with my "real" dad. I doubt he knew that I could even read, and he definitely didn't know what kind of cookies were my favorite.

A weird mix of the two sides win out, and I just nod with my jaw clenched. He watches me for another second or two, maybe to see if I'm going to snap, but then leaves me alone in the library with a quick pat on my shoulder.

What was wrong about what I did? Easy, it was stupid and I didn't think. I don't know if I can fill a full page with that unless I made my handwriting huge. What could I have done differently? Not been stupid and actually think. Definitely not two pages. Why does it matter? I don't know.

I press the pencil to the paper and start to write what comes to mind. Why I did it to begin with and the fact that I knew I was being reckless before I even entered the cave. I write about how I still don't know what I'm doing here or why he picked me, and if he knows that I'm more trouble than I'm worth. I just write and write, not thinking anymore about who is going to read this or how off-topic I'm going. I don't care now about dessert or giving him exactly what he asked for. I just need to get a few things off my chest.

So I do.


	5. Chapter 5

Even if I were threatened with a gun to my head, I would not be able to tell you what I wrote. I was five pages in before I realized that, not only had I gone past my page limit, but I had no clue what the hell I was rambling about. Apparently word vomit can also happen with a pencil.

I am up the stairs and in Bruce's study, ready to hand him my mess of a paper, when I realize I am probably better off not showing him. Honestly, telling him I had decided not to do the paper and face going to bed without dinner (or however rich people deal with these things) seems like a better option than handing him whatever I had been dumb enough to put down. Too bad he has already seen the pages.

He looks up from his pile of work and leans back in his chair, not so much reaching out for my paper as just waiting for me to approach him when I'm ready. He has to know I'm not. It doesn't take the "world's greatest detective" a whole lot to deduce that I'd rather cut off my toes than hand him the crap that just ran through my head and made it onto paper. He also has to know that I don't have much of a choice but to hand it to him. What else am I going to do? A billion other options run through my head, but none of them make a damn bit of sense.

I go as far as wondering if I could just eat them when Bruce gently clears his throat. "Jay? You all right, chum?"

Two nicknames. Now I really do have to hand him the paper. A small part of my brain almost wants to now, even. Maybe it would help him make sense of me. For better or worse, maybe it would help him see the mess he brought into his house. Only, I don't want to be some mess he has to fix.

I also don't want to be some stupid coward.

I take a deep breath and finally hand it to him, ready to bolt the moment the pages leave my hand. His hand brushes mine quickly as he takes my paper, though, and it's just enough to catch my attention.

"Why don't you pick out one of the books on the shelf while I take a look at this? There are a few first editions in there. Take your pick."

Three weeks with the man and he already knows my weak spots. I mean, he _did_ let me write the paper in the library. Food and books, all I need are food and books. And maybe a pillow to yell into when people piss me off. Mostly food and books, though. So, I nod at him like a robot and wander to his shelves, slowly remembering what I had put on paper as I watch him lean back to read it out of the corner of my eye.

For the second time in 24-hours, I can't help but think that I'm looking at some road burn when they kick my ass to the curb. I shake it off and focus on the shelves, knowing way too much what he is about to learn about me. About what I was willing to write.

_Okay. So. Writing what I did wrong, why it was wrong, and how I won't ever do it again… Words, words, and more words. Taking up space. Taking up space. Taking up space…_

_Actually, that's usually what I do, old man, in case you haven't noticed. I take up space. Always have and always will. I'm not saying that for any kind of pity party, just telling it like it is. Figured you've fed me for a while now, it's the least I could do. I know you thought you were doing a charity and that everything would be hunky-dory or whatever when you decided to take me in. I get that Dick is getting older (can he seriously not go by another nickname?), and you want someone else around to get your back. I get how you could see how I would be good at that. And I would be. You fed me when I needed it and gave me a bed to sleep in. If you needed me to go into a burning building and save some poor sap who had it coming, I'd do it. Street logic. It's a thing. _

_That doesn't mean I don't just take up space, though. Sooner or later you're going to find out that leaving me in that alley would have been your best option. I'm sure you know more than you let on about me. Hell, maybe you know more than I do. It's kind of your M.O. You get evidence and how criminals work. You analyze and compute and calculate. Everyone has their hobbies. Yours just happens to be about being OCD and making sense out of things. _

_Only, I don't really make a lot of sense to someone who grew up in a mansion and who wants to be a bat. I don't mean that in a bad way. I just mean that it's different on Park Row. It's hard to calculate and analyze whores and johns and junkies. You just do what you can when you can and you hope for the best. _

_So, when I heard someone needed help, I wanted to do what I could and hope for the best. Isn't that what you did taking me in? Do what you could for me and hope for the best? It's what Alfred does taking care of you, whether you want to admit it or not (don't kill me…), and what Dick does doing whatever the heck Dick does. _

_Okay, I admit I got excited when I ran off like that. I know it took you years of training with Buddhist monk ninja assassins or something, and Dick was a circus freak before turning into a vigilante freak. Alfred probably went to some sort of butlering school somewhere, too. I know you're mad I wasn't totally trained and decided to go out there on my own, on top of yanking one of the Robin cycles and sneaking past Alfred. I just couldn't help but want it to be my turn. I want to help someone. I want to prove that, even if or—let's be real, B—_**_when_**_ you decide we should call this what it is and I head back to where I came from, that I can still do something good. _

_I don't have six months or a year of time to do that, either. I've been here all of three weeks and already I've got you two steps from wanting to toss me out of a window. I do that to people. Ask my old man, if you ever find him. I'm not the kind of person people stick around for. Just ask my… never mind. I'm not saying this to get you all sappy or make anyone feel bad for me. I can take care of myself, just like I could have last night. And after I leave, I want you to at least remember two things: not to feel bad about leaving me on my own because it's not like I haven't handled it before, and that I did at least one good thing for someone else. _

_I'm never going to be someone like Dick, someone you can be proud of a lot and show off the trophies of and brag to people about. He's got the golden boy thing covered, and it suits him. Still, it's hard not to get a little… Whatever. It's nice what you have here, the three of you. I don't want to mess that up. I just want one good thing I did to add to it before it all goes to hell. And it will all go to hell. I'm more trash than you can handle, and it's nothing either of us should feel bad about. It's what I am, and it's best for you to just call it quits. _

_So, this is me saying what I did was wrong because I nearly killed myself, but it would have been worth it. I'll never do it again, at least not with you around. And, as for why?_

_There is always someone better than me, B. If I could take a chance and save someone else and that person is better than I could ever be, then to hell with me. I'll take it. _

_PS—I meant it when I said you could count the silver. _

I read the first page of _Oliver Twist_ over and over without taking in more than the first sentence: _Treats of the place where Oliver Twist was born, and of the circumstances attending his birth. _

I know Bruce was staring at me after a while. More than staring; it's like he could see right through me. Creepy. After a while, I can feel his emotions change. Even his pulse seems to switch, but maybe it is my own stupid heartbeat. I can hear it in my ears, telling me to just run the hell out of here.

I had pulled some idiot, poor-boy sad card and insulted Bruce a few times in there at the same time. He is going to kill me. He is going to chop me up into tiny pieces using his batarangs and, as he already knew from the letter, no one would give a damn. Heck, part of me doesn't give a damn. At least I would die in a cool way.

"Jay?"

Bruce's voice is so quiet. It is weird how different it could be from what I had heard him use on criminals over the computer speakers. His tone is off, and even his breathing has a different… edge to it. The only word that keeps coming to mind is "quiet". Everything is quiet, quiet, _quiet_.

I left Bruce speechless. Damn it, I left _Batman_ speechless. All I know is one thing:

This can't be good.


	6. Chapter 6

Death, in some form or another, is usually not far from my mind. Not to be weird or morbid, but it comes with the territory with both of your birth parents are fertilizing daisies and your shiny new dad puts himself in danger for the sake of the city. It's kind of hard to go too long without giving a thought to it. I just usually don't worry so much about my own death, but it occurs to me now as Bruce stares me down that this might be it for me.

Here lies Jason Peter Todd: mouthy little shit.

"Is this what your really believe?" he asks.

"I guess?" Shrug.

He doesn't even bat (heh) an eye at the shrug; usually he can't stand it. I've broken him. If only Bane knew you could break Batman by throwing one shitty pity party for yourself.

"Jay," he starts after a long breath, "you have to know…the thing is…."

"Yeah?"

He pauses again for what feels like hours, then gets that "batglare" look, squares his jaw, and rises to his feet.

"Get in the car, we're going for a drive."

"I know what that means," I say. "You're bumping me off."

"I'm not 'bumping you off'. Just get your coat on and get in the car." His tone leaves me little room to argue if I want to stay in one piece, so I get up and do as I'm told. I'm still surprised at how obedient I'm getting with just a few weeks around this guy. A few months ago, if you had told me I would be taking orders and, for the most part, following them, I would have thought you'd lost your damn mind. Now, I think I've lost mine.

In a few minutes, we meet up at the front door and he gestures me out with a quick nod of his head. Its the most I get from him straight through getting into the car, me in the passenger side as he takes the driver's seat, and us speeding through the outskirts of Gotham. At first the quiet makes me feel worse. I go over what I wrote a million times in my head, wondering what I should have worded different and how. I shouldn't have been so damn honest. I know I came across as a self-pitying punk. Any thought I could have, I had a hundred times over.

Then, Bruce rustles my hair, still not looking at me or saying a word, but it tosses the thoughts way. I relax against the leather seats of his Rolls Royce, taking in the scenery. Christ, the boonies were kind of pretty. I was born a city kid and had been damn sure I'd die there up until he lost his mind and picked me up. The most green I had laid eyes on were the stubborn trees that broke through the concrete sidewalks in that stubborn, _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_ way.

Yeah, I read it. Try me.

It's only been since I came to live with Bruce that I started to appreciate actual forests. Whole miles of nothing but wildlife. Untamed land that basically gives the middle finger to us spoiled humans. Before I thought nature was a lame thing, pretty in paintings but full of flowers and allergies. Now? Now it's badass.

"How are you feeling, kiddo?" Bruce suddenly asks, breaking me away from the lines of trees I'm staring at.

"Okay. I mean, still not sure you're not about to kill me, but fine for now."

"I'm not going to kill you," he insists again, resting a hand on my shoulder. "I just wanted you to see something."

"Does it start with pants in any way?"

The smile fades from his face and he abruptly stops the car, slamming the brakes so fast I would have knocked my head against the dashboard if it weren't for the seatbelt he's damned determine I wear."

I barely get my bearings when he pulls me back by the collar of my shirt, ensuring we're eye-to-eye. "Never, _never_ make a joke like that again. I mean it."

"Yes, sir," I stammer.

He takes in a deep breath and lets me go. "You know that you never have to worry about a thing like that, right? I know that, in your life, you may have—"

"Bruce," I interrupt. "I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made the joke. I know you're not into… well, into _that_. You've been great. I swear. I know you'd never do anything that might hurt me. At least, in that way. You'd just make me do laps until I have to pass out."

He stares me down, but I stare right back. He has to know I'm serious. Know that I don't think he'd ever hurt me like others on the street threatened to, would have succeeded to if it hadn't been for me being a lucky scrapper and having a few sharp teeth. Still, I know my days before someone was faster and stronger were numbered before I won the lottery. Sometimes, the easiest way to deal with fear and trauma is to laugh at it.

After what feels like hours, he nods and pulls back into the street. "I'm glad you feel safe, Jason. Or, at least, you're getting there. It's important you know that you're not in danger of certain, well, situations in my home. Whether it be by my hands, Alfred's, or, God forbid, Dick's."

"Can we please talk to him about going by another nickname?" I ask.

Suddenly a hard flick connects with the top of my ear, sending a surging sting across the side of my head. "Ow! Bruce! You _just_ said you weren't going to hurt me."

"You said that, and you know that was nothing. Lay off Dick's name. It was a family name and you know how he feels about connection with his family."

Fair. I don't say as much, instead just rubbing my ear, but fair. Unlike where Bruce got me, he happened upon Dick in a traveling circus. From what I've been told, my new pseudo brother was a part of the main attraction—the youngest member in a family of trapeze artists known as the Flying Graysons. They traveled everywhere, from San Francisco to St. Petersburg, until they performed in Gotham. Neither Dick nor Bruce tell me much about it, but I do know some mob asshat decided to make an example of his folks because the guy who used to run the circus, some stand-up old man, decided not to get involved in dirty money. Next thing you know, Dick's an orphan.

In spite of his name, Dick is a good guy. Better than me, for sure. So good he doesn't even rub it in my face that he is and will always be better than I am.

I love and hate it. Nice guy asshole.

I shake off my mixture of appreciation and disgust only to catch we're driving again. The terrain has gotten more wild and hillier, my stomach flipping as we go up and down large slopes. I try to be patient, to let him take me wherever he sees fit to take me, but my feet start to twitch with nervous anticipation.

Then, just as I'm about out of my mind, he pulls the car into a small, hidden lot and parks. "Here," he says, in case the stopping wasn't obvious.

"Where _is_ here?"

"You'll see."

Together we get out of the car, and I follow him as he treks through pebbled paths, winding in all different directions.

Then, I see it.

In the middle of this dense, wooded area is a rock cliff that juts out, well over the valley below. We inch closer, and from here I feel like I can see everything. I mean, everything. The lights of Gotham in the distance, the mountains that brush the clouds in the distance, rivers and waterfalls, who knows how much more of God's green earth that I'd only read about in books. Everything.

Bruce reaches out and taps my mouth shut, and only then I realize it's been hanging open all this time. "You like it?"

"Like it? Hell yes! Who the heck knew this was so close to Gotham? Jeez!"

He chuckles and pats me on the back, careful to be gentle. "Pick a place. We'll sit and talk wherever you feel comfortable."

"You brought me out here to talk?" I ask.

"Just pick a place, Jay."

Though his words sound short, there's a light humor in his tone, and more of the clenching in my chest relaxes. I find a smooth patch near the cliff, though not too close in case I test my luck more, and take a seat. He follows, and I'm half surprised he sits on the ground in his designer suit that probably costs more than most people make in a month.

"So, why here?"

"This," he starts, looking out over the cliff, "is where I came after my parents died."

"By your self?" He nods. "All the way out here?" Another nod. "Dude, how?!"

"I basically did what you did. I stole one of the motorcycles in garage and just… left. I needed to clear my head and at the time I didn't care what happened to me. I just needed to leave, and that felt like the best plan of action. So, after Alfred put me to bed for the night, I snuck downstairs and it all went downhill from there. I nearly crashed a few times, and the last time I stalled on one of these hills. Fed up, I wandered a while until I found this place. It was dark out, but it was a full moon and it reflected off everything, allowing me to see everything below. After losing my parents, I didn't think I'd ever appreciate anything again, And then I found here. I sat here for hours, well into the morning when Alfred found me. When he did, I swear I thought he was going to toss me over the cliff. Instead he pulled me into a hug and held me.

In that house, I didn't feel comfortable saying much, but here I was able to talk to him, man-to-man, about how I felt. I cried until I was hoarse and could barely whisper and told him how I felt like everything was my fault and how I wished it was me that had died instead of them. He just listened until I was finished, and then he told me something I'd never forget."

I tear my eyes away from the view and look at him, straight into his blue eyes that look so weirdly like mine. "What did he say?"

"He told me that we cannot change where we come from or what has happened to us. The past is the past. Dwelling on it can drive a man insane. More than that, he said that what happened to my parents wasn't the fault of a child who was scared of a film, but the fault of the man who pulled the trigger, and only those that do harm to others should he held accountable for the havoc they wreak. He said that my life wasn't over, just that it had changed, and I needed to be brave enough now to allow myself to see where it took me."

"So," I start, looking around, "you brought _me_ here for a reason. What is it you want from me?"

"The same thing, Jay."

"I don't know anyone who pulled any trigger. My mom accidentally offed herself and I don't have a damn clue what happened to my old man, but whatever it was he probably deserved."

Bruce shakes his head, resting his hand on my back. "I mean that I want you to know that the past is the past. What happened to you? That's over. As much as you and I would like to, as much as even Alfred and Dick would like to, there is nothing we can do to change where you came from or what has happened to you. Dwelling on it is only going to make everyone miserable or drive us crazy wondering how we could have helped earlier. I understand how you're feeling, Jay. At least, I can try to understand it and hope you can help me comprehend the rest, but I need you to be brave enough now to move forward. I need you to be brave enough now to know that you're welcome with us. You're in Wayne Manor for a reason. And, unless you want to leave for a valid reason, you're stuck there. I want you to realize that, and to know that, as strange as it is, you have a family now. If that's too much, then at least you have friends now. You're cared for."

It takes a while to realize I've stopped breathing. I feel a stupid, betraying tear fall down my face, and Bruce pretends not to notice.

"This place is sacred, right?" I ask, hating how damn weak my voice sounds.

"Right."

"So, whatever I say here stays here, right?"

"Right."

I heave a sigh and let it out slowly. "I don't really know what it's like."

"What what's like?"

"To have a dad." I stumble over the words, realizing how much I've friggin said. "I mean, you know, someone who kind of acts like one. For once."

"Look, Jason, I won't promise to be perfect. Ask Dick. We've had plenty of arguments and I've made plenty of mistakes. Arguably more than he has, though don't tell him I said that."

"And inflate his ego more? Never."

Bruce laughs, continuing, "You're not here only until you prove you can or cannot handle or want to be Robin. Regardless, you have a home now. And, while I understand you're going to doubt that from time to time, I want that thought to get pushed further and further into the back of your mind. Can you try to do that?"

I look back out to the valley below and at all the damn sacred nature around me. After forever, I nod. "I can at least try."

"That's all that I can ask."


End file.
